


my love is building a building around you

by jynersq



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Domestic, F/M, Fluff, Holidays, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-10 07:14:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5576134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jynersq/pseuds/jynersq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they push into the bedroom for the first time in months, the sweet, stale scent of old candles and abandoned sheets rushes at them.</p><p>“Home, sweet home,” Jemma murmurs, shucking off her raincoat directly onto the carpet, as Fitz collapses sideways onto the bed, fully clothed. She joins him a moment later, tossing an arm across his back, tucking her face into the faintly dusty pillowcase. The room is a mess of old things and new luggage around them, a relic of abandonment. But they’ll deal with it in the morning. For the first night in weeks, they don’t have to sleep with one eye open.</p><p>(Or, FitzSimmons' first Christmas holiday in Perthshire.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, Juliana (owlvsdove) was incredibly fab, hilarious, and also patient while beta-ing such a long fic!! Thanks, sis!! Thanks also to my other sis, Zoe (awkwardspiritanimals), for reading over it, too.
> 
> Chapter/section titles are from various poems or songs, notably featuring E. E. Cummings, Daughter, Moddi, Jack Johnson, The Paper Kites, and Zella Day.

_i. my love is building a building around you, a frail slippery house, a strong fragile house (beginning at the singular beginning of your smile)_

They get in from the airport late. It’s close to three in the morning when they finally stumble in the front door, and they don’t even bother turning on the light. Fitz is only half-sure any of the light bulbs still work, and it’s too small a place to be anything but memorized, anyway.

They leave wet footprints and chilly baggage-claim tickets at the door, exhausted from the oddity of a commercial flight and simultaneously relieved at the mundanity of it. Jemma had remarked halfway across the Atlantic how strange it was to fly without being shot at at least once, and they’d both laughed harder than they should have. Even though it hadn’t really been very funny.

Crossing into the cramped living room, Fitz stumbles, as he always does, over one specific patch of uneven floor and Jemma reaches out for his elbow without thinking. He swears under his breath that next time he’ll remember, and if she weren’t so tired, she’d laugh.

When they push into the bedroom for the first time in months, the sweet, stale scent of old candles and abandoned sheets rushes at them.

“Home, sweet home,” Jemma murmurs, shucking off her raincoat directly onto the carpet, as Fitz collapses sideways onto the bed, fully clothed. She has a bit more grace than he does, at least stopping to remove her shoes and sweater.

She joins him a moment later, tossing an arm across his back, tucking her face into the faintly dusty pillowcase. The room is a mess of old things and new luggage around them, a relic of abandonment. But they’ll deal with it in the morning. For the first night in weeks, they don’t have to sleep with one eye open.

 

 

_ii. they say home is the place where your heart is, then i am home now, though i am far away_

He draws lazy circles on her back as the sun comes up, his neck warmed by the small, even breaths where her head is tucked under his chin. Heat moves across the little room in waves, pushed out in lazy swirls by the humming corner heater. It does well to keep the blustery chill at bay, and the sheets are smooth on their shoulders.

He hums out a yawn into her hair, the taste of bad airport coffee sticking to the roof of his mouth. The clock on the mantle is wrong, but if he had to guess he’d say at this point they’ve slept at least ten hours, if not more.

Outside, the rain coughs at the window roof in throaty bursts, cutting through the thick fog that rolls down from the hills.

Inside, though, his body gives off a calming heat, and her arm is softer than anything, tucked around his waist, keeping him close.

This is a rare morning of quiet, as close to a real vacation as they will likely ever get in the near future. No one —not even the team, save Daisy— can find them here, and that lends it its own kind of security.

Negligible light struggles in past the clouds, the rain steady on the window. Fitz feels his eyes closing again.

On her back, his fingers slow, and eventually fall.

—

When he wakes the second time, her side of the bed is empty. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he reaches out a hand to feel the sheets for any lingering warmth.

Cold. Practical. She might have gone out.

“Jemma?” he calls out, sitting up, but only the house calls back to him.

Fitz lets out a breath, and leans back, head pillowed against the headboard. He studies the room around him for the first time in several months. The main attraction is a singular bra, still half-hanging off the overturned lampshade months after her hasty abandonment. The same night they left a ding in the plaster from knocking the dresser into the wall, he’s almost positive. One side of his mouth quirks.

The floor just outside the doorway creaks, and he sits up straighter. A moment later, she breezes into the room wearing nothing but one of his overlarge tees. Its symbol has long since rubbed off in the wash, but its color suggests academy days. It hangs somehow just right off her thin shoulders, falling appealingly mid-thigh.

Standing in the doorway, she cradles a small mug in her hands, its steaming contents sending faint spirals into the air.

"Hey," he says, with a grin.

She comes in, bare feet making no sound on the polished wood floor.

"Made you tea," she says, passing the mug so that their fingers graze on impact. She settles herself beside him on the bed, careful not to tilt the mattress too close to him.

"Thanks," he says, as one of them always does.

He studies her over the fragile rim of the mug. Her hair hangs loose, down the back of her tee shirt. It’s longer than he remembers. When was the last time they’d had time to look at each other properly, much less had a few days off? He can’t remember. The world’s not a particularly proper place for vacations at the current moment. Certainly not for SHIELD.

He sets the tea down on the night-table, careful not to disturb the crooked lamp, and toys with one long strand, winding his fingers in it.

“So,” she says, contemplative. “What shall we do today?”

"Well, for one, we could… go back to bed,” he says, watching how her shirt half-hangs from her shoulder. She shoots him a look from under her lashes that does not suggest anything near so innocent.

When he pushes the hair back from her eyes and draws her mouth close, the metal band is cool on the back of her neck.

"As tempting as that sounds...." She sighs, right before their lips touch, “we can’t.”

He pauses.

“Wait, why not?”

She pulls back.

“Well, for one, we’re out of food...” she trails off.

He doesn’t even blink. “Doesn’t matter. That can be taken care of later.”

His stomach growls. She raises her eyebrows.

“Okay, it matters a little,” he concedes. Disappointed, he slumps to the bed, half-closing his eyes. He groans. “Why didn’t we go shopping last time?”

“We did, but it’s all expired by now.” She jiggles his shoulder. “Come on, come on. We’ll have plenty of time for all sorts of shenanigans later.”

“Is that a promise?” he asks.

She bunches her mouth up, but her eyes are smiling. “It’s a promise.”

—

By the time they head out of the house, the rain has let up somewhat, but there’s a fine drizzle that settles on them in moments. The short walk to the car is a dash across wet flagstone, not far enough to bother with umbrellas, but close enough to soak the tops of their heads.

They slam the car doors with more force than necessary, laughing and wet.

"Fitz, no!" Jemma shrieks as he shakes his wet hair out like an oversized puppy. She scrunches herself against the far side of the car, but their little used Ford doesn’t afford much space.

He grins at her and does it again.

"I’ll cut your hair in your sleep again," she gasps, but it’s rendered harmless by unavoidable laughter. She shoves his shoulder. He starts the car.

—

The supermarket parking lot is crowded, which means a real hike to the automatic doors, the two of them scrunched up under their only little yellow umbrella. Which means various arms and legs dripped on until Fitz elects to walk behind, holding the umbrella up solely above her head. Her eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles at him, and, after that, he doesn’t even notice the rain.

In the aisles of a proper supermarket for the first time in months, they collect the necessary items for their short stay.

“I forgot what it was like to have actual options,” Jemma marveling at the cereal aisle in particular.

On base, the agents took turns going shopping, and everyone else was left with whatever the person on grocery duty had a hankering for that week. Suffice it to say they’d all had enough Lucky Charms to last a lifetime, excluding maybe Fitz.

Every few feet, Fitz nudges her waist with the end of the shopping cart, just to see her turn around with that brightness in her eyes, somewhere in between affection and annoyance.

"Honestly. What are you, twelve?” she asks, feigning exasperation.

"Thirteen, actually,” he says, smugly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Well, you’re too young for me, then,” she deadpans, standing on her tiptoes to reach for a high-up cereal box.

“That’s fair.”

He nudges her again, then walks around to reach it for her. She eyes him, then takes the cereal.

“Thank you,” she says.

He shrugs. “Well, it helps to be a strapping five-foot-eight.”

Despite herself, she cracks a smile. “I’m sure.”

Then, turning to the next aisle, “Now. Ham, or turkey?”

—

By the time they exit the store, the deluge has let up briefly and suddenly. The cloudy light illuminates the little outdoor plant market awkwardly slouched against the side of the larger store. They stow their perishables in the boot of the car and then she tugs him over by the hand to wander the aisles crowded with misty-wet needles. Fitz makes a mental note to pick out a tree at some indefinite, later point.

He waits as she picks out a new little parsley plant for the kitchen window, rests his chin patiently on her shoulder, smiles hello to the vendor as Jemma pays.

She’s a neighbor, a motherly woman close to his own mum’s age, with soft, greying brown hair and an even softer smile.

"You kids," she chides, "out here in the rain, and not a bit of meat on either of your bones. Get back inside, before you catch cold!"

They don’t bother protesting that they have, in fact, survived such weather most of their lives. It’s nice to be looked out for, even for such negligible factors as weather.

"Yes, ma’am," is all they say, dutiful.

On the way back to the car, she spots it — a flyer for the annual Christmas Eve festival, a few days from now.

"I’d have thought it’d be cancelled, for the weather," she muses, but notes the information anyway. He shrugs, but she’s thoughtful.

On the edge of a nearby table, his eyes light on a fallen holly sprig and, on impulse, he stops to tuck it into her bun. She smiles at him, and anchors it behind her ear, and swings their clasped hands all the way back to the car.  
—

Later, they squish together front of the laptop to chat with Daisy over Skype in an old chair definitely meant for one person. Though it’s only been a little over twenty-four hours, they already feel as though they’ve missed much. Especially at S.H.I.E.L.D.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you’re, like, getting away for a few days,” says, Daisy, easily, leaning on her elbows to look into the camera. “But it’s so boring without you guys.” She lowers her voice. “DC hasn’t come out of his office all day, I’m pretty sure, and May’s out of the country, too. It’s already, like, way too quiet around here.”

Jemma makes a sympathetic noise. “Oh, that’s no fun.”

“Oh, like May adds much noise, anyway,” Fitz says. Jemma nudges him.

“You know that’s not what she meant.”

“Well, but that’s what she said, so—”

Jemma rolls her eyes. “Not everything is meant to be taken literally, I’m sure you’re aware—”

“Hi, hello, are we done?” Daisy asks, clapping her hands to get their attention.

Jemma clears her throat and sits up straighter. It’s marred by the fact that, to see the screen, she’s huddled on one arm of the recliner.

“Yes. Sorry.”

“So. When are you guys coming back, again?” Daisy asks, earnestly. “Soon, right?”

“Less than a week, now,” Fitz says. “Just a few days, I think?” He looks to Jemma for confirmation.

“We’ll be back right after Christmas,” she says, brightly, leaning her head into his shoulder. “We’ll be back before you know it!”

Daisy sighs. Then, brightening, “Well, I’ll take boring over dangerous any day. But enough about me. Enjoy your time off, seriously. Have you done anything fun yet?”

“Only if one finds a necessary trip to the grocery story particularly enjoyable,” Jemma says, dryly, cutting her eyes over to Fitz.

“Which I happen to,” he interjects. “Lots of great food. No Lucky Charms, though.”

Daisy raises an eyebrow at Jemma. Jemma just shrugs.

Daisy laughs, resting her chin on her fist. “I mean, grocery shopping could be fun, I guess.”

“Not when you’re shopping with a twelve-year-old boy, it’s not,” Jemma corrects, patting Fitz on the shoulder.

“Rude and hurtful,” he mutters. “It’s not my fault I need to eat roughly my body weight in food each day.”

“So jealous of your metabolism,” Daisy says, fervently. Then, “Seriously, though, that’s all you’ve done?” she asks. “Get on it, kids! Life is short.”

“Well—” Fitz starts, turning to Jemma.

“Wait, no,” Daisy says, waving her hands in front of her. “I don’t want to know what else you’ve done.”

“Oh, but we are thinking of driving out to the beach sometime soon!” Jemma interrupts, brightly.

“Better,” Daisy affirms, looking to Jemma. Then, frowning slightly, “Wait, in the rain? And isn’t it, like, way too cold?”

“I’m a Scot,” Fitz replies, automatically.

“You do realize the weather in our respective hemispheres is different, right?” Jemma asks, brows drawing together.

Daisy rolls her eyes. “No, I know. I’m just keeping tabs on your weather, too, is all. I’m nice like that.”

Jemma raises a brow. “Really is a slow day for you, isn’t it?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” Daisy sighs. “I mean, usually, I like them, but since you guys are gone, and everyone’s out—”

“We’ll be back before you know it,” Jemma says, again. “Maybe you could scrounge up Hunter or somebody to shoot bottle rockets off the roof, or whatever it is we can’t be there to do with you?”

Daisy hums, thinking. “I know you’re mostly kidding about bottle rockets, but that’s actually not a bad plan,” Daisy says, thoughtful. “I bet I could get him to go along with it.”

“Well, whatever you do, be safe about it,” Jemma advises, motherly. “Preferably, wear a helmet.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Lance Hunter is generally prone to stupid ideas,” Fitz adds, as if that were a necessary reminder.

Jemma sighs. Daisy laughs.

They talk aimlessly for a few more minutes. Then, a shuffle in the background, on Daisy’s end. Mack comes in to the very edge of the camera, calling for all available hands.

“Sorry, guys, looks like I gotta go,” Daisy apologizes, whipping her head around to call back to Mack. “Something interesting’s finally happening, apparently.”

“Yes, of course,” Jemma says, waving her hands before her. “Be safe.”

“Keep us updated on your end, yeah?” Fitz says.

“Yeah. Of course.” Daisy smiles. Then, “Miss you guys.”

“Miss you, too,” they chorus.

Then, “It’s late. Go to bed, guys,” she says, and winks, brashly. “If you know what I mean.”

“Goodbye, Daisy,” Jemma says, over Fitz’s exasperated, “Everyone everywhere knows what you mean.”

She just grins. “Love you!”

The camera goes dark, and Jemma closes the laptop.

“Love you, too,” she says, quietly.

Then, “It _is_ late,” she says, absently, turning her head to the window. He hums in agreement.

In the moonlight, vague shapes illuminate in the dark. The suggestion of a tree, the slope of a hill.

She likes nights in the country. Likes to get away every once and a while, to see the stars from her window. Likes the peaceful separation from the hustle and bustle of many others all around.

“Time for bed, I think,” she says, a moment later, extricating herself reluctantly. She stands, shakes her legs out, feeling the blood rush tinglingly back into her cramped legs.

She then extends a hand to him, tugging him out of the chair by the wrist.

“Just to clarify,” he says, trying not to look too eager, “ _Bed-_ bed, or—?”

She rolls her eyes at him, fond, and then negates it entirely by rising up on her tiptoes, leaning in to press her mouth to his.

“Well, let’s see, shall we?” she says

 

 

_iii. for whatever we lose (like a you or a me) it's always ourselves we find in the sea_

They do decide head out to the beach after lunch the next day, a few hours’ drive from the little house. They spend the morning packing provisions, loading towels and beach chairs into the car. There are closer beaches, of course, but Fitz particularly favors this one, and what reason did Jemma have to argue? And so they drive into the sleepy winter sun.

The parking strip is mostly bare, so they park as close as possible and climb out over the cattails that obscure the path to the beach. They keep their coats on as they clamber down to the water, and Fitz stretches out their towels on the faintly chilly sand.

If the parking strip is bare, the beach is deserted, only a handful of fishermen trying their luck, and a stray, mangy looking dog.

It’s too cold to spend much time sitting. The sun makes occasional appearances as they walk parallel along the choppy water— Fitz, unsuccessfully trying to skip rocks, Jemma, filling her pockets with only the smoothest, roundest shells.

Some time later, she looks up to find him already watching her. She smiles reflexively, then picks up on the too late on the mischief in his face.

Very slowly, she puts another shell into her pocket.

“What.” It isn’t a question.

“Nothing,” he lies, pretending he’s not inching closer. He looks to her, then back at the water. “I just thought—”

“Fitz—” she warns, noting how he’s closing in. “I’m nice and dry, and it’s very cold—”

“—you might like to go for a swim!”

He falls upon her. She shrieks as he picks her up entirely, too slow to move away. She shivers in surprise, trying to squirm away, deterred by her bulky coat. A nearby fisherman eyes them, skeptical.

“Fitz, no!” she shouts, helplessly, as they approach the water. “Do not—”

He stops at the very edge, right where the waves come up to touch his feet.

She eyes him. “Fitz, I’m telling you— Don’t, please, it’s so cold—” She shifts to hold onto him more tightly, holding to cling fast enough that he’ll have to throw the both of them. If she has to go into the water, he’s coming in with her.

Unfortunately, she realizes, it wouldn’t make much difference to him, anyway. She changes tactics, tries to climb from his arms.

“Don’t—” she pleads, laughing, and throws herself sideways, so that they fall to the sand, instead of the freezing surf.

“You’re bloody crazy,” he laughs, lying helplessly beneath her.

“I can’t believe you,” she gasps, laughing helplessly through chattering teeth. “Oh, God, it’s so cold.” She extricates herself from him, stepping out of his reach. She kicks up a lump of sand at him, indignant.

“Yes, you can,” he says, smugly.

He looks like he’s going to come for her again, and she’s off like a shot.

“Where are you going?” he laughs after her, standing up, brushing the sand off his coat.

“Away from you!” she shouts. The wind whips her hair into her face in tiny, painful lashes, but she hardly even notices. She is cold, and buzzing, and oh-so-alive.

She’s a dot in the distance when Fitz finally gets his bearings. But he takes off after her, and he runs until he overtakes her, and then they keep running, side-by-side— they run until their sides hurt, kicking up sand and shrieking over the gulls.

—

“It’s funny to think these rocks and minerals predate us by thousand of years,” Jemma muses, later, in a quieter moment. They’re sitting on the beach, letting their breath catch back up to them. Fitz is flat on his back, and she’s cross-legged, sifting through the packed sand beneath them. She trades the tiny particles from one hand to the other, bringing it to her face for closer study. “And yet, they do. Billions of particles, millions of years old. They were here, or on some other beach. Before SHIELD. Before HYDRA.”

“You know, I’m beginning to think there always was a HYDRA,” Fitz says, staring at the mass of clouds above them.

She snorts. “You’re probably right.”

She lets the grains slip back through her gloved fingers.

“D’you ever think about how the pod’s still out there?” he asks, suddenly, sitting up and squinting at the horizon.

Jemma pauses, looking out of the water.

“I mean, not _there_ , there,” he rambles, waving an arm at the water. “We were over the Atlantic, then, of course, and this is the North. But it’s still, you know. Out there.”

“Honestly, I try not to think about it,” she says, crossing her arms across her chest. A small frown dimples her forehead. “It just makes me angry all over again.”

He nods.

Then, “It doesn’t bother me so much, anymore,” he says, and is surprised to learn that it’s true.

He sleeps better, these days. He dreams, good dreams and bad, instead of only bad. He doesn’t obsess over every little thing he could’ve done differently, everything that could’ve maximized their time and minimized the damage. He doesn’t. And he’s almost certain it’s because, when he wakes up, he’s not alone.

“Good,” Jemma says, leaning her head into his shoulder. “Because I don’t think it’ll ever not bother me.”

He turns, presses his lips to her temple.

“I know.”

At his side, her hand winds into his.

“Maybe a giant, Inhuman whale got to it,” she says.

He laughs, wrapping his arm around her. “The pod?”

She nods. “Maybe a group of them. Maybe they just completely destroyed it. Maybe there’s nothing left of it.”

He laughs again. “A _pod_ of whales.”

She closes her eyes, and groans. _“Fitz.”_

“Come on, it was right there,” he protests.

She opens her mouth to respond. Before she can, she feels a tiny drop of rain splash the top of her head. She scrunches her nose and looks up, taking in the gathering stormclouds.

One, two, three more drops patter across the sand before them, and she laughs when Fitz catches one right in the eyes, making him blink.

A low rumble of thunder threatens at the horizon as the wind slowly begins to pick up, driving the sea in choppy waves.

It’s drizzling, now, which means they’re getting up. She touches his arm, but they’re stiff and sore and too tired to run again, so they shelter their heads with their arms and head for the car.

When they get inside, the rain bursts in little drumming sounds against the windows and doors, coming down harder by the second. They barely hear it, breathless with exertion and laughter.

"Well, I suppose that’s the end of that," she says, wiping wet hair from her face.

“I guess so,” he says, regretfully, turning the car on.

“At least we’ll have a story for Daisy,” she says. “Though I’m sure business must have picked up by now, don’t you think?”

“Mmm,” he agrees, peering out the rearview mirror to navigate them out of the parking lot.

By the time they’re five minutes out, the rain is coming down hard again. It’s not quite dark, but visibility is poor, and they’re surrounded on all sides by sheets of rain.

Jemma chews her lip as the windshield wipers strain to keep the windshield clear, with little result.

“Should we pull over?” she asks.

"We’re all right," he says, reassuringly. "These ones always blow over before you know it."

But it doesn’t. For the next twenty minutes, they practically inch down the narrow road, covering a distance less than two kilometers.

Eventually, they’re forced to pull over to the shoulder, and wait out the worst of it.

“Do you have a signal?” she asks.

“Mmm— no,” he mutters, peering at his phone. “You?”

She pulls her phone from her pocket. No bars. She huffs in frustration. “Nope.”

He drums his hands on the steering wheel. “Well. I suppose we’ll just have to sit this one out, then. Shouldn’t be too much longer.”

Jemma sighs. “One would think that I, an Englishwoman, would be used to all manner of weather and temperature at this point, and yet...” She trails off.

Suddenly, she laughs.

Fitz gives her an odd look. “What?”

She grins. Turning toward him in her seat, pulling her knees up to her chest, “I was just thinking— Remember that time we were snowed in for a whole weekend, back at the academy?”

He groans, leaning his head back on the window. “Oh, the worst. The power went out, and everything. It was so bloody cold.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” she says, grinning. “We spent the whole weekend cuddled up with the old VHS player!”

“Only because I got the generator working,” he counters. “Which was no small effort. And you just got to sit inside, all nice and warm.”

“Wrong,” she says. “Periodically, I brought you hot chocolate.”

“Doesn’t count,” he says. “You made me come up to the door for it.”

“All right,” she says, rolling her eyes, “my point is, we made the best out of a bad situation, and it did not turn out as bad as it possibly could have. And it ended up being fun. After we got the heat back on, at least.”

He heaves a sigh. “I suppose.”

She nudges his shoulder. “Come on. It was fun. It was at least a little bit fun.”

“If it was fun, it was fun because you were there,” he says, honestly. “Not because we lost power and had to live on and ramen for two-and-a-half days.

“It was very peaceful and quiet,” she says, thoughtfully. “No one around, nothing to do but sleep and watch _Titanic_ on two VHS tapes.”

“I think we’re going to have to compromise on the meaning of the word fun,” he says, but he cracks a smile.

She snorts.

Eventually, like a fever, the rain breaks just enough that they’re able to pull back out onto the road.

Jemma settles into her seat again, preparing herself for the long drive ahead. However, a few minutes later, Fitz pulls off the main road and onto a little gravel drive, nearly hidden from view. She hadn’t even seen it. She squints at the peeling sign, which reads  _McGarvey’s Family Bed and Breakfast._

She gives him a baffled look. “What’s this?”

“Used to drive by this place sometimes with my mum as a kid,” he says, with a little smile, looking over his shoulder to back into a parking space. “Always wanted to visit, but we never did. I didn’t know it was still open until I saw the sign, but it’s closer than driving all the way back home. What do you think?”

“About staying the night?” she asks, bewildered. “Well, I— It’s lovely, but we’re not prepared, we haven’t brought any spare clothes, toiletries, toothbrushes…”

“Come on, Jem, you know they sell that kind of stuff at the front desk,” he wheedles, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. “It’ll be fine. It’ll be nice. And it’s better than driving home in the storm.”

He looks so hopeful that any hesitation on her part crumbles almost immediately. She’s trying to learn to be more flexible. And what could it hurt, really? They’re already on vacation.

“Well, all right.” She smiles, unbuckling herself. “I suppose it’ll be fun.”

He grins, looking almost giddy. “This place looks just the same as it did fifteen years ago.”

They make a dash for the door, bounding up the rough stone steps two at a time until they reach the safety of the covered porch.

The weathered older man at the front desk has the deep, wrinkled tan of a sailor, and the attitude to match.

"Caught in the storm?" he asks, gruffly, noting the obvious lack of luggage.

"Yes," they say, in unison, trying not to drip too much on the soft, slightly musty carpet.

He simply nods to himself. Handing Fitz an old-fashioned, tasseled key, he simply points them in the direction of their room.

"Breakfast is six to ten," he calls after them, almost as an afterthought. “Laundry’s at the end of the hall.”

Fitz puts his hands up politely in response, acknowledging that they’d heard, before dropping it around Jemma’s shoulders. Even with their soaked clothes, she already knows they won’t be able to use the machines — they’ve only brought one set of clothes.

It’s a sweet old house, a repurposed black and white-shuttered cottage smelling faintly of vanilla and maybe a trace of mildew. With only one level, and direction from the front desk, it’s not at all difficult to locate their room.

Jemma stifles a yawn as he turns the key in the lock. The room is tight quarters, but this is hardly a concern.

It’s all they can both to keep from falling down immediately, but there’s still the small matter of soaked clothes. Exploration of the bathroom allows them to exchange their soaked, clinging clothes for puffy white bathrobes hanging inside.

Jemma hangs her wet clothes over the curtain rod in the bathroom, then emerges to give the room a better look. It's small, and woodsy, country-charming. Wood paneling covers the walls, but instead of outdated, it's somehow appealing.

Rustic scenes, on oil canvas, cover the walls. Ducks on fogged lakes, rolling hills. They're not particularly skilled, but they add to the atmosphere. She can see why the outside of this place appealed to Fitz as a kid.

Two bedstands sit on either side of the bed, holding up lamps that look like they've seen better days. They might possibly even be older than she is. But that's all right, because the main attraction, the down-comforted queen-size bed, could not possibly look more comfortable if it tried.

She gives it a once-over, then throws herself sideways onto the it, feeling its surprisingly springy warmth catch her.

“Oh, I like this,” she groans, as Fitz emerges from the bathroom as well. “This is so nice. I like this.”

He just looks at her.

“Come join,” she says, patting the space beside her. “There’s plenty of room up here.” He pauses, then, taking a running start, jumps up beside her.

She yelps in surprise, leaping to her feet. Standing on the mattress, she gives it a curious test bounce.

“Remarkably springy,” she says, pleased. She gives a small jump, making the mattress squeak. Then, another.

“You’re going to piss off our neighbors,” Fitz says, knowingly.

“It’s hardly nine,” she says, suddenly giddy. “Too early for anyone to be trying to sleep. And if they are, that’s their fault, really.”

“Jemma Simmons, I had no idea you were such a degenerate. You’re a bad influence, you are. I can’t be involved with the likes of you.”

He’s grinning in a very displeasing manner, so she grabs a pillow, swatting him with it. He goes down, sputtering.

“You’d have married me anyway,” she says, cheerfully.

“Probably true,” he mutters, then jumps up on his feet, as well.

“Okay, I see how this could be fun,” he admits, bouncing. She grins, clutching her pillow.

It quickly devolves from there. They jump around without care for noise, being only moderately careful of things like _the bedframe_ and _the walls._

Eventually, a neighbor bangs on the wall, demanding they quiet down, and then and only then do they fall to the covers, and then to the floor, giggling like the children they never really had time to be.

 

 

_iv. in the morning when i wake, and the sun is coming through, you fill my lungs with sweetness, and you fill my head with you_

She doesn't like waking up first, because she doesn't like seeing him like this.

He's not doing anything in particular, just sleeping. Eyes closed, breathing softly. She leans against the plush headboard, hair falling soft and sleep-tangled about her shoulders, watching him.

He’s lying on his side, toward her, face slack with sleep. He looks younger, less beleaguered, more like the Fitz she met when she was seventeen and still believed she could change the world.

To anyone else, surely, he's peaceful. But she doesn't see peaceful, not always. Sometimes, when she sees him asleep, she sees him pale, covered in tubes. She sees him, too-still and dying. She smells hospital. She hears doctors telling her if he doesn’t wake soon, he likely never will. Later, she looks him in the eyes as he sits in front of her, mute and afraid. It's been years, but she’s beginning to think the memory of that feeling will never go away.

So, lately, instead of trying to chase the feeling off, she’s begun trying to make peace with it, stretching herself to see how long she can stand the memory of that feeling, how long she can watch him be still like this before her heart starts to pound.

Eventually, though, she always needs to see him open his eyes, when she can’t take it anymore. It might be selfish, but she needs to see him wake up. Just to be sure he still can.

She tries to make it gentle, to absolve her guilt. Weak light filters in as she cards her fingers through his tangled hair until he begins to stir; she traces over his ear, his jaw, until his eyes start to open.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” she says, softly, when that automatic trace of morning grumpiness furrows his brow. She tries to rearrange her expression into a smile.

“‘s so bright,” he mumbles, curling into the safety of his pillow. “Morning already?”

“It’s almost eleven,” she says, swallowing hard.

Sensing that something is amiss, Fitz’ uncurls himself, to look up at her.

“Jem?” he asks, groggily, sitting up. “Something wrong?”

“No,” she says, slowly, nudging him back down. He looks unconvinced.

She shakes her head, runs a hand down the side of his face. “Nothing’s wrong,” she says, leaning in to kiss him. He mumbles something against her lips, but she can't make it out.

She moves closer to him, as close as she can get. He relaxes fully, wrapping a hand around back of her neck, drawing her in. Pulling back for a moment, she grazes her mouth along his, making him sigh. She climbs on top of him, and he shifts below.

She braces one hand on the headboard of the bed, moving down to line them up. She grinds against him, long and slow, until all she sees are the stars bursting behind her eyes, nothing of him in a hospital bed.

She sinks down onto him, and he lets out a soft groan, a sound that makes the both of them shiver. She arches reflexively against him, and the mattress creaks and dips.

They’re tangled up in each other, the soft white comforter about their hips. It’s easy, and gentle; his face is buried in her neck, her lips in his hair. Nothing too exerting. She watches him from above with her eyes half-open, watches his own close when she takes his hand, gripping it on the pillow beside his head.

With his free hand, eyes still closed, he traces an awed line from her breast to her hip, then, torturously slowly, to her clit. She tips her head back but utters no sound, feeling herself flutter around him.

“Fitz,” she sighs, wrapping her free fingers around the headboard of the bed. Feeling feverishly warm and delightfully dizzy. “Fitz, I—”

“Me too,” he breathes, pressing up against her.

He takes his time just as she takes hers, kissing his way across trembling shoulders, finding his way by mouth and hands to her breasts and beating heart.

"Fitz,” she says, again.

She clings to him and he rocks her gently, one hand on her middle back, one at her waist.

Eyes half-open, she ghosts a hand up his back from the lowest vertebra of his spine to his neck, like tracing a diagram. At the sensation, he buries his head in her shoulder.

Finally, she cries out against him and his mouth both echoes and quiets the sounds, until she breaks away, breathless.

When she collapses back down, she takes his face in her hands and kisses him soundly.

—

They take their time driving back, enjoying the day. The rain has cleared, at least for now, and Jemma drives this time —she insists, because it’s fair and it’s her turn— as Fitz reclines his seat as far back as it will go, propping his feet up on the dash.

The road is empty and she drives as slowly as she wants, so slowly that Fitz swears more than once they’re actually going backward, and tells her if she’d wanted to stay longer at the bed and breakfast, she should’ve just told him. And if she approved of things like taking both hands off the wheel at one time, she might have smacked him.

He dozes, on and off, and she turns the radio on, soft, something light and classical that sounds like a song she should know the name of, but she doesn’t. Instead of trying to remember, she simply drives, letting the winter sun fall across their faces as they make their way back home.

 

 

  
_v. if we make it out alive from the depths of the sea, compass points you anywhere closer to me (where you are, i will be)_

One of Jemma’s favorite things about Mary Fitz is that, more often than not, on the rare occasions they’re in town, she drops in unannounced, just to say hello. She shows up frequently doesn’t expect much, other than a warm cup of tea and maybe an hour or two of conversation. Jemma knows Fitz doesn’t much appreciate the lack of warning, but, to her, whose parents are too busy to come calling, it’s charming. They’ve only been able to visit with his mother a handful of times since joining Coulson’s team, and it’s been difficult, to say the least.

Which is why it’s a delight for Jemma find her at the front door this afternoon, dressed in several coats and holding a ziploc bag of Fitz’s favorite biscuits, fresh out of the oven.

“Oh, Fitz!” she exclaims, opening the door, ushering the woman inside. “Your mum’s here!”

She hears the couch springs protest as he jumps up, skittering on the hardwood into the foyer.

“Mum, what have I told you about calling unannounced?” Fitz says, but there’s no real displeasure in it, and his mother ignores it in favor of pulling them both into a sweet-smelling hug.

“It’s so good to see you both,” she says, warmly, giving them a both a squeeze, then releasing.

“Darling girl, you look lovely, as always,” she says, to Jemma. Jemma smiles, dropping a kiss on her cheek.

“Thank you, Mary,” she says. “You look well.”

“Well, if I do, it’s no thanks to this one, here,” she says, stepping back, putting her hands on her stout hips. She gives her son a once-over, narrowing her eyes. “Gallivanting all over the world, never finding time to call his dear old mum—” She touches his cheek, running a critical thumb over his stubble. “And on top of all that, not even bothering to shave...” The spark in her eye lets Jemma know she’s only teasing, but Fitz falls for it.

“I— Hey, Jemma does those things, too!” he protests, pulling away. “Gallivanting, and such. And you know I call when I can.”

“Jemma is not my only begotten biological son,” Mary says, sternly. “That would be you, Leopold. Though, I would appreciate more calls from you, of course,” she says out of the side of her mouth, winking at Jemma, who masks her grin behind her hand.

Fitz sputters for a moment. “Less than two minutes, and you’re ganging up on me,” he says, incredulous. “That must be some sort of record.”

“I’m not!” Jemma chirps.

“You’re not speaking up in my defense, which is practically the same thing,” he says.

His mother cracks a smile, unwrapping her scarf. “Now, now, Fitz. Don’t get cross, I’m only teasing. Look, I brought your favorite.” She hands him the ziploc bag, then begins the arduous process of unbuttoning her coat.

“Listen, if you think you can bribe me with food—” he starts, insulted. Then, looking inside the bag, a quick change of pace, “—you’re absolutely right. Good to see you again, Mum.”

Jemma takes her coat, hanging it in the hall closet, smiling.

Though there were only two, of them, the Fitzes had been Jemma’s first experience with a true family dynamic. Her own parents, while loving, were professionals at the top of their own fields —medicine, for her mother, law, for her father— which meant they were distant, and she had no siblings to speak of. Family dinners had been infrequent in the Simmons household, to say the least.

But the Fitzes were different. Despite her limited knowledge of his scientific field, Fitz and his mother were close, a package deal, so when Jemma had become friends with Fitz, she’d been thrown into a relationship with his mother, as well. As soon as Mary had seen that Jemma believed in her son just as much as she did, she’d taken a liking to her, and had welcomed her with open arms.

Fitz’s voice startles her out of her reminiscing. “You coming?” he calls, from the other side of the house.

“Oh, yes, of course,” she says, flustered. “Sorry, be right there.”

She finds them in the living room. Fitz, leaning on the edge of an armchair, already snacking; Mary, seated on their loveseat. She crosses the room to sit beside his mother, shifting a decorative pillow out of the way.

“So,” his mother says, once Jemma’s settled, folding her hands in her lap. “How long will you two be staying this time? Through the new year, I hope?”

“We fly back out the 26th,” Jemma informs her, apologetic. “Maybe next time we’ll be able to stay a bit longer.”

Fitz snorts, and she shoots him a look.

“That’s what you say every time,” Mary sighs, patting her hand. “Ah, well. Not your fault. Though, you’d think they’d give you a little more time, after all you’ve been through,” she grumbles, under her breath. Fitz raises his eyebrows. “None of which I know about, of course,” she qualifies, raising her hands.

Jemma chuckles. “Well, we’ll be here for Christmas, at least.”

“You’re welcome to join us in, Mum,” Fitz adds.

“Thank you, my loves,” she says, “However, I’ve already made plans with my bridge club. Maybe I’ll pop in in the evening, though, yeah?”

“Of course,” Jemma says, warmly. “We’d love to have you.”

“Oh, you must be so excited to spend your first Christmas here,” Mary says. “I’m excited for you, it’s a big step. This is everything I’d hoped for you two.”

Fitz blushes. “Aw, Mum.”

“No, really,” she says, beaming. “You two were always so good together.”

“It’s true,” Jemma says, lightly, looking to Fitz.

He gives her a quick smile, then, clearing his throat, “Well, all right, enough about us,” he says, waving a hand. “What about you, Mum? Been keeping busy?”

Mary quirks a smile. “Oh, you know me,” she says, brightly. “Never a dull moment. What, between bridge club, classes at the university, and teaching Sunday School to a bunch of rowdy five-year-olds every week, I’m a busy woman.”

She’d had Fitz young, barely twenty, and dropped out of university when his father had left. A few months ago, she’d called, all in a flutter, to let them know she’d gone to finish her degree. Jemma didn’t think she’d ever seen Fitz’s eyes shine so brightly, except maybe when he looked at her.

“And you said you’d retired,” Fitz teases, fond.

“Yes, well.” She shrugs, looking pleased. “I do best when I keep busy, you know that. And now longer that I’ve no longer a young son in the house, building robots and knocking down shelves whenever he pleases—”

“That was _one_ time —”

“—I’ve got plenty of time to myself,” she finishes, eyes twinkling once again.

Jemma watches them like a tennis match, back and forth. She enjoys speaking with his mother herself, but she might possibly enjoy watching just the two of them interact even more.

“A story for another time,” Mary says, with a little chuckle, mostly to Jemma.

“Or never,” Fitz pipes up. “Seeing as it was twenty years ago.”

“Well, anyway,” Mary sighs, smile fading. “I hate to turn serious on you, but I see you so rarely that I’m afraid I must.” Then, surprisingly, she turns to her son. “Fitz, dear, could I trouble you for a cup of tea from the kitchen?” she asks, carefully. “I’d like to speak to Jemma for a moment.”

“Is something the matter?” he asks, brows drawn. Still, ever the obedient son, he rises.

“No, of course not,” she assures him. “I’d just like to speak to Jemma for a moment.”

With a shrug, Fitz heads into the kitchen. A moment later they hear him put the kettle on. Only once they hear the radio turn on, a low undercurrent of sound, does Mary reach out for Jemma’s hand.

“I know it’s been a few years, now,” she starts, low, leaning in, so only Jemma will hear. “But I never got a chance to thank you in person, for what you did for my son. Saving him, at the bottom of the ocean, everything you did to help him recover. Leopold thinks I don’t know— He doesn’t want to worry me, of course— But a man named Phillip Coulson called and told me a few days after you did.”

“Oh.” Jemma looks down. “Well, as I said before, as I told you then, that’s not really— That’s not what happened; it was the other way around, actually. He saved me. I just pulled him up.”

Mary takes her hands, eyes shiny. “That’s not true, Jemma Simmons,” she says, gently. “If you hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t have a son to come visit today.”

Jemma swallows hard. She stares at Mary’s white knuckles over her own, thinking back to that awful day —day seven, she thinks— when she’d been so close to giving up, to losing hope, that she’d done what she’d been avoiding for days— holed up in her room, and called his mum. She’d been crying before the phone had even started ringing.

“Truly, Mary, he’s done no less for me,” she says. “He’s—” She pauses. “I can’t even begin to describe the things he’s done for me. Additionally, some of it’s classified.” She gives her a lopsided smile.

“That may be so, and God knows I couldn’t be more proud of him, but it doesn’t negate the fact that you have been saving my son since the day you met him,” Mary says, sincerely, squeezing his hands. “You’ve always taken such good care of him. I just wanted you to know how grateful I am. I’ll always worry about him, but I worry so very much less when he’s with you.”

“Oh, Mary,” Jemma says, blinking rapidly, overcome by her kindness. “Of course.” She leans in to grip the other woman in a tight hug. “Of course,” she says, softer. “I love him.”

“I know you do,” Mary whispers.

They cling to each other for a long moment, saying nothing.

Then, from the other room, Fitz clears his throat. “Er— Not to disturb whatever womanliness is happening in there, but can I come back in?”

Jemma and Mary pull away with a shared chuckle, both swiping at their eyes.

“Yes, darling,” Mary calls.

He shoots Jemma a curious look as he returns, but knows better than to ask. “I didn’t, er, know if you actually wanted tea,” he says to his mother, “or if it was just an excuse to get me out of the room, but I made some anyway.”

“Such a good son,” she murmurs, taking it from him.

“Yep, that’s me,” he says, brightly, leaning against Jemma’s side of the loveseat. She leans her head into his side. If he detects any leftover emotion in the room, he’s not letting on.

“The one and only,” Jemma agrees.

—

Eventually, the sun begins to set, and Mary Fitz reluctantly drags herself away, despite multiple offers to set up the tiny guest bedroom for her for the night.

“No, no,” she says, cheerily, slipping on her heavy coat, “you two just look after each other. I’ll see myself home, I must be getting back for church tomorrow, anyway. People will talk, you know,” she stage-whispers.

Fitz rolls his eyes, handing her her gloves.

“Be safe, you two,” she says, finally, before stepping out the door. Clasping their hands in hers. “Take care of each other.”

“You too, Mum,” Fitz says. “Be careful driving home.”

“Of course we will,” Jemma says. Hugging her again, “Thanks for coming out to see us.”

“It’s entirely my pleasure, dear,” Mary says, kissing her cheek. “Until next time.”

They wave as she walks down the path, a bright red coat in an otherwise bare landscape. Fitz wraps his arm around Jemma’s waist, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, into her hair.

“For what?” she asks, confused, turning her head to look at him.

“Just. You know, for being so great with my mum,” he says.

“Well, she’s a wonderful person,” Jemma says, with a smile. “She makes it easy.”

He smiles back.

Down the driveway, Mary clears her throat, interrupting their thoughts. She’s turned back suddenly.

“Is there something you need, Mum?” Fitz calls.

“It’s only, I almost forgot to ask,” she says, brightly, “When, exactly, do you plan to give me grandchildren?”

Jemma laughs, once, clear and loud. It echoes off the bare trees.

“Goodbye, Mum,” Fitz groans, closing the door.

 

 

  
_vi. maybe we can sleep in, i’ll make you banana pancakes, pretend like it's the weekend now_

He makes dinner as she showers, filling the little house with warm, bright smells. The rain has cleared up, and through the high, rectangular kitchen window he can see the streetlights, beaming yellow along the road.

On the counter, the radio is on, a little red model Jemma picked up at an antique shop in town, and the tinny sound making even the most recent, oppressive pop charming. He hums along, low and under his breath, using the ancient spatula to flip the pancakes before they burn. This is the one meal —or substance that passes for a meal— he’s consistently capable of making from scratch, excluding sandwiches, but fortunately Jemma is just as fond of them as he is. He’s just hoping she won’t mind that this is the third time this week.

Over the sounds of the radio, he hears the shower in their room shut off with the faint squeaking of old handles.

A few minutes later, Fitz hears the bedroom door open and shut, and he hold his breath without meant, his back to the doorway. When she presses her face to the soft fabric of the back of his short, he can feel the slight dampness of her sweet-smelling hair. She presses her face against the soft fabric of his shirt, wrapping her arms around his waist. His hands are busy, but he nudges her back.

After a pause, Jemma’s grip loosens, as she stands on tiptoe to peer over his shoulder.

“Oh, pancakes!” she exclaims, brightly.

“Again, I know,” he says, a bit sheepishly. “I had a bit of a hankering.”

“Mm, to the surprise of no one,” she says, and squeezes his waist, once, to let him know she doesn’t really mean it. “Dinner for breakfast sounds wonderful. Especially since we missed actual breakfast.” She raises her eyebrows, knowingly.

He blushes.

She uncurls her arms from him to set two places for them at the the little lopsided kitchen table with it’s cheerful gingham tablecloth, weaving around him in this kitchen that barely fits the both of them, and is, at the same time, just the right size. As far as Fitz is concerned, if it means their knees touch under the table, it’s just the right size.

He slides cooling breakfast onto disposable paper plates as she tries, largely unsuccessfully, to perk up the unintentionally neglected potted plant on the windowsill out of its slump with a bit of tap water.

“Hate to say it, but,” he says, pulling her chair out for her, “I think that one might be a goner.”

She frowns. “Oh, but I gave this one a name, and everything. I even _talked_ to it this morning.”

He tries to hide his smile, unsuccessfully, behind his glass of orange juice. “Well, not for lack of trying,” he offers, sympathetically.

She sighs, slumps a little in her chair. “I’m a biochemist. I should be able to keep a houseplant alive, for heaven’s sake.”

He smothers a laugh. “I don’t think it’s that you don’t know how, Jem. I think that it’s the fact that it’s been watered once, maybe twice, in over six months.”

She sighs. “Clearly. Well, I suppose I’ll try again with this one,” she says, gesturing to the parsley she’d picked up a few days before. Then, perking up, “Oh! Speaking of plants,” she says, “we still need to go back and pick out our Christmas tree!”

He sets his mug down on the table. “We’ll go right over after we finish eating.”

It takes them another half-hour to finish, mostly because Fitz eats somewhere around six more pancakes before Jemma finally, cuts him off, arguing that he’ll be too sleepy to do anything if he continues to eat.

They pile into the car, probably more rope in the backseat than is typically necessary, but neither of them has actually gone tree-shopping for themselves before, which means preparation is key. For Jemma, anyway.

They end up back in the same outdoor nursery beside the supermarket, wandering the aisles of varying plants until they reach the back, where the pines and firs are arranged by height. They recognize the owner up at her register, and call hello.

Jemma walks ahead, running her hands along branches and naming varieties. Fitz, however, lingers from tree to tree, giving each a good sniff, inhaling the sharp mix of scents. The high, sharp treetops point self-importantly toward the deep navy sky, with its sprinkling of stars. He’s always appreciated the country, but it’s especially serene to him now, having spent so much time cooped up in an underground base, or in one of a handful of planes.

Truthfully, Fitz can’t even remember where they were last year on Christmas Eve. Donetsk, maybe? Or had it been Qatar? In the field, and on base, all the days —holiday or no— seem to run together, blurry and indistinguishable.

He loves his work, he does. He loves being part a team, being a part of something larger, but, lately, they’ve been getting older, and sometimes it’s hard to remember. He wonders if that’s still the same thing.

Jemma stops short in front of him, and he accidentally runs right into her, not paying attention to where he’s going. However, she doesn’t seem to notice.

“That’s the biggest Christmas tree I’ve ever seen,” she says, awed. It must be at least fourteen or fifteen feet tall, and it looks even larger beside her small frame.

“It’s gigantic,” Fitz says. Then, “It would look perfect in the living room, don’t you think?”

She laughs. “I don’t think it would even fit in the front door, much less the house,” she says, incredulous. “You could get seriously hurt moving a tree like that.”

He eyes her, tucking his gloved hands into his pockets. “That sounds like a challenge.”

She raises an eyebrow, turning to him. “It shouldn’t. I was just commenting on its remarkable size.”

“Well, it does,” he says.

She takes his hand, tugging him forward. When he protests, she simply says, “Fitz, I’m not taking you to the emergency room days before Christmas because you picked a fight with the wrong tree.”

He makes a face. “Too small.”

“I had no idea you were so picky about Christmas trees,” she says.

“I’m not picky,” he protests, “I only have two conditions. It has to be big enough to fit presents under, for one,” he says. “Two, it has to be big enough that attempting to move it presents a significant risk to life, health, and property. Trip gave me that advice.”

She rolls her eyes, albeit fondly at the memory of her friend. “Let’s keep looking.”

Finally, they find just the right tree— not too large, nor too small. Not too shabby, either. In Jemma’s words, the Goldilocks tree.

“Here, come look at this one, Fitz,” she calls across the aisle, patting its sturdy branches. “This one’s feasible. We should be able to get this one onto the roof of the car without too much difficulty, don’t you think?”

“No guts, no glory,” he mumbles, looking back to the row of gigantic firs. Then, turning back, “Er, that one’s fine, I suppose.”

“Oh, it’s more than fine,” she says, staring up at its dark needles. “It’s just right.”

They pay the owner, then come back to stand before it, contemplative.

“Do we just… take it?” Jemma asks, skeptical.

Fitz shrugs. “Beats me. Mum and I always had a fake tree.”

“Okay,” she says, “Well, I suppose we’ll just have to, you know, tip it…?”

She gives the tree a timid nudge. It doesn’t budge.

“Well, all right,” she says.

Fitz gives it a larger push, then a shove. It tips slowly, hitting the ground with a slow whoosh of needles.

They’ve talked their way out of dozens of tight situations and shot their way out of more, but, confronted with something as normal as buying a Christmas tree, they’re, well. A bit green. It must show, because the owner calls, “Grab it from the top, and drag it.”

Fitz shoots her a thumbs-up. “Got it, thanks.”

He grabs it gingerly, and Jemma joins in behind. Luckily, the parking lot isn’t far.

“We really should get out more,” Jemma says, sheepishly, and she’s not wrong.

It’s more of an effort than they’d planned, but between the two of them they manage to drag it to the car and secure it to the roof, making sure not to accidentally tie the front doors shut. It more or less succeeds, because, fifteen minutes later, they’re on the road again.

The tree bumps worryingly against the roof of the car in the wind, but they mostly ignore it.

“As long as it doesn’t completely fall off,” Fitz says, rather tensely, “it’s fine.”

Jemma just stares out the window, watching the gentle hills go by.

They run into another problem upon arriving home: actually getting the tree in the door. Neither of them had considered measuring the doorway to record how large of a tree would be able to fit, which poses a significant problem if they want to keep most of the lower branches from cracking in half. Which, they do.

They try everything they can think of— parallel, perpendicular. It just won’t fit in the door, and they don’t want to force it.

“We could break the branches off the back half and then just put it in the corner,” Jemma offers, finally, breathing hard.

“No, no,” Fitz says, looking sweaty but determined. “Come on, one more time.”

“You know, I’m not opposed to leaving it on the porch—”

“One more time.”

They throw their combined weight against it, this time not stopping when they hear slight cracking of branches.

It fits. They push it in the door and directly onto the living room floor, where it lies in the middle of the rug, unprotesting. They only hardly avoid falling on top of it, catching themselves on the doorframe.

“I never knew tree-hunting was so much work,” Fitz breathes. “On second thought, I’m not sure I’m ready for this kind of responsibility.”

“I certainly see why you always had a fake tree,” Jemma says, staring into the living room. “Now,” she says, exhaling heavily, looking over at him. “Where did we put the string lights?”

—

“Remind me to build a robot to do all of this for us next year,” Fitz groans, later, from his position on the floor. They’d finally managed to set the tree up, lights and all, and he’d promptly collapsed, spread-eagle on the floor. She’d brought him a glass of water, then taken the couch.

“You’ve got that right,” she says, with a low whistle. Then, “Or, you know, invite Mack over, get _him_ to put up our tree single-handedly.”

“Over my dead body,” Fitz says, mildly incensed. “I do have a sense of pride, you know. A small one, but I do have one.”

Jemma chuckles. “All right, all right. Christmas robots it is.” Then, “Regardless, it really is just right,” she muses, a moment later.

Though he’d held out for a bigger tree, he has to agree.

The only place that made sense to put it was nestled beside the couch, where it rests on a red felt skirt. With effort, they’d managed to connect a tangle of lights into a coherent string, and the tree beams soft white from the corner, reflected in the window panes.

It looks like home. It looks… right.

“Not bad, for our first tree,” she says. “Good work, Fitz.”

She reaches down to high-five him, but he grabs onto her hand, instead, giving it a squeeze. He smiles tiredly up at her from the floor.

“You, too, Jem.”

 

 

_vi. we are what we are, don't need no excuses for the scars (and i pray a lot for you, and i look out for you)_

Fitz wakes up like this: chest heaving, hands shaking. Hearing Jemma’s shouts in his head, with his nose just inches from her soft hair.

He sleeps facing her so she’s the first thing he sees upon waking, regardless of whether morning comes in softly, through the curtains, or on the knife’s edge of a nightmare. This morning it’s the latter, a hybrid nightmare— bound to a chair and hearing her scream from rooms away, frigid water licking at his ankles.

His heart thuds in his ears, so loudly he’s sure he’ll wake her up. Feeling like his chest is curling in on itself, he shifts to his back to try and ease his breathing, eyes fixed on the ceiling. _God. Again?_

He clenches his eyes closed, then opens them. He looks to his left, to make sure he hasn’t woken her. Her slow, steady breathing tells him he hasn’t. Above all, he’s glad the nightmares tend to paralyze him more than anything else, because it means he won’t unknowingly lash out and hurt her, it means that she’ll sleep through them.

He waits until he calms, but then he’s too restless with leftover adrenaline to stay in bed. Slowly, he slides out from under the covers, padding toward the kitchen on bare feet.

He grabs a mug from the cabinet, turns on the kettle and then takes a chair. He briefly considers watching TV, but a quick look at the stove clock tells him that he probably wouldn't be interested in what's playing now, anyway. He drums his fingers clumsily along the edge of the table, somewhere between anxious and frustrated.

It’s strange, but it feels more difficult now to handle infrequent dreams than three years ago, when every night they were a sure bet. He’s grown used to the luxury of occasional nights of peace, so when the nightmares reappear, it knocks him off balance. Makes him cranky.

When the water's ready, he deftly drops a decaffeinated tea bag in and carries it into the living room with him.

He's settling down on the couch in the dim lamplight when the missed call reminder comes in, lighting up his phone on the table beside him. It’s from a blocked number, which means it’s most likely Daisy, checking in. They haven’t heard much from her since the Skype call a few days ago, and his phone tells him she’d tried to call a little over an hour ago.

Instead of replying via text, as he usually does, Fitz decides just to give her a call back. After all, it may still be an ungodly hour here, but it's a perfectly acceptable hour where she is. What's more, they haven't heard much on SHIELD's side in the past couple of days, and he knows Jemma can't help but worry when they go so much as a day without speaking, so it’ll set her mind at ease if he checks to be sure everything is all right. It’s also a better option than sitting in the dark, watching the television on low, like some sort of zombie.

He hits redial, and waits for the first ring.

It's not Daisy who picks up.

"Bobbi?" Fitz blinks, confused. "Isn't this Daisy's phone?"

"Oh, she's off somewhere with May. Meditation, I think. At least, I’m assuming that’s what she means when she says ‘hate-fu,” Bobbi says, dryly.

Fitz laughs. “Naturally." Though he’d been expecting Daisy, it's good to hear her voice. He hadn't seen her much in the weeks prior, both of them too busy.

"Well, Fitz," Bobbi says, brightly. He can hear her dragging a kitchen chair over to the table. "How've you been? Long time, no talk."

"Ah, not bad," Fitz says, because he has been, for the most part. Nightmares aside, the past few days are probably the most rest he's had in months. "Jemma and I are doing just fine. And you?"

"I’m glad to hear that," Bobbi says, sincerely. "I’m fine. Just. Glad to be back in the field, you know?"

Fitz nods, then remembers she can’t see him. "I know how you feel."

“I know you do,” she says.

“How’s the leg?” he asks.

“Much better,” she says. “Not as good as new, but almost. And honestly, that’s good enough for me.”

“Good, good. How’s Hunter?”

Bobbi snorts, fond. “Hunter? He’s fine. Same old, same old.”

Fitz chuckles. “So, tell me,” Fitz starts, both wanting to shift a little attention off himself and curious about his friend, “I heard you wrapped up your mission in San Diego?”

“Boy, did I ever,” Bobbi laughs, and Fitz settles in.

He asks him about the mission, and Bobbi tells him what she can over the phone without giving away sensitive information, which isn’t much. He asks about Bobbi, and he asks about Hunter, and he _very significantly_ asks about Bobbi and Hunter — only because he knows Jemma would kill him if he missed that opportunity, all right? — and before he knows it, he's relaxed on the couch, stretched out in ease.

Close to an hour later, Bobbi runs out of details, and, just in time — Fitz’s eyes are starting to droop. Bobbi’s picking up on it, having to repeat herself, waiting longer for shorter replies.

“Fitz? You still there?” she asks, having finished her story.

He smiles, rubbing his eyes. "Yeah. Sorry. I’m tired, s’all. I think I’m going to turn back in soon."

"Back?" Bobbi asks. "Hold on, what time is it there?" She pauses, then, "Can't be later than four in the morning." It’s not a question.

Fitz hesitates. "Er. Yeah, that's correct."

“Well, why are you up so early on vacation, Fitz?” she asks, deceptively casual. “Don’t tell me the ID channel suddenly became worthwhile. Do they even have that in the UK?”

Fitz chuckles. “They don’t, unfortunately.” Then, shrugging, “You know how it is.”

“You’re damn right I do,” Bobbi says. And Fitz knows she, like the others, doesn’t ever talk about them, but there’s no way to live in close quarters without hearing leftover dreams. “But we all get them, you know?" she says, a little quieter.

Fitz smiles faintly. “Yeah.” Then, looking at the clock, “Hey, Bobbi? I think I’m going to try and get a bit more sleep.”

“Do what you’ve got to do, Fitz,” Bobbi says. “Get some rest. Say hi to Jemma for me.”

“Of course. Good talking to you,” Fitz says, meaning much more than just that, but unable to form it into the right words in time. The line goes quiet. He sets the phone gently on the table beside him, the ghost of smile still lingering at his mouth.

He hadn’t planned on talking to Bobbi, but he can’t deny he’s feeling much better now than before he’d picked up the phone.

He’s not sure how long he sits before there’s a rustling in the doorway, and he turns to see Jemma, in the doorway, dressed in her soft, silvery robe.

“Fitz?” she mumbles, blinking in the light. “What are you doing? Who are you talking to?”

"Sorry, Jem,” he says. “Just Bobbi. Did I wake you?"

She shakes her head slowly. “Woke up and you weren’t there. Bed now?”

She’s swaying a little, still half-asleep, probably won’t even remember this exchange in the morning.

“I’m sorry,” Fitz says, again, hiding a smile. “Sure.”

He extricates himself from the couch, carrying that warm feeling in his chest with him as he follows her down the hall.

She pulls him back into bed, curling around him under the covers. As soon as his head hits the pillow, he’s asleep, and neither wakes again until morning.

 

 

  
_vii. behind everything that i do, i just want to come home and lay down beside you (and then i'll be who i wanted to be)_

“I wish every afternoon could be like this,” Jemma says, bringing him out of his thoughts. It’s afternoon, and they’re sitting in the warmest corner of their favorite coffee shop in town, aimlessly people-watching. They only have a few days of leave left, but they don’t feel particularly moved to do much else, so they continue to sit long past when they run out of words.

He’s been watching a young family opposite them on and off, and when she speaks, he has to shake his head to bring himself back to awareness.

“Hm. Sorry, Jem, what’s that?” he asks.

“It’s just, I’ve been thinking—” She pauses, looking down at her hands as she searches for the right words. "Well, sometimes, I just wish there were a way every day could be like this," she finally says, quickly, a confession.

His heart jumps oddly in his chest, and he can’t help but glance at the family across from them again. The youngest child is currently struggling to remove himself from the high chair as the parents look fondly on, and their laughter carries across the room to him.

“You mean… like vacation?” he says, slowly, looking back to her. “As civilians.”

“Mm.”

He takes a breath that feels more monumental than it is, and says, "Well, maybe there is."

"How do you mean?" she murmurs.

"Well," he stalls. "I’ve sort of— been thinking the same thing. I’m not sure I realized it until you said it, but I have. Eventually, we’ll have retire, right? From the field, at the very least, if not SHIELD altogether."

"Fitz, what are you saying?" she asks, carefully, after a pause.

"I’m saying," he says, "I’m saying, we could always… stop. I mean, not entirely. But. Quit going away so much. Find a permanent place to be. Coulson’s trying to open up as many labs as he can, you know. I’m saying, we’re nearly thirty—"

“You’re nearly thirty,” she pokes.

"Oh, ha ha," he says, dryly, then grows serious again. "We could, though."

"Is that what you want?" she asks, searching his face for any indication either way. “Is that what you’re trying to say?”

"I don’t know," he says, honestly. "I mean, no. But also, yes, sometimes. I mean, I could do without constantly being split up on missions.”

She nods. “Retirement always seemed so far away, I suppose,” she muses. “But, I always— I always pictured myself with a permanent home, maybe children, too. It’s just that, now that I’m here, I’m not sure how to reconcile the two.”

They sit in contemplative quiet for a moment, both lost in their own distinct thoughts, of SHIELD and retirement and everything in-between.

“Well, it’s all right,” he says, eventually, leaning back in his chair. “We’ve still got time to think it over. No need to make any rash decisions.”

Across the room, a baby shrieks. They both look up at the noise.

“Yeah,” she says, thoughtful, looking at some spot over his shoulder. “I suppose so.”

  
vii. have yourself a merry little christmas (let your heart be light)

Where the strung lights of the annual Christmas Eve market might have been cheesy in the daylight, they are nothing but absolutely charming at nightfall. In some places, the old brick houses are still rain-damp, and the streets smell like fresh earth.

Clasping hands, Fitz and Jemma wander between the booths that hold all sorts of odds and ends— jewelry, baked goods, mittens. Their breaths let out little puffs of white from beneath their bundled scarves, as they mingle with neighbors and sip slowly from their small plastic cups of hot cocoa.

Despite the freezing weather, it seems as though the entire town’s come out to the square, as though the shops and homes have turned out their pockets and sent everyone out to bustle along the streets. There’s a sense of closeness, of warmth and cheer, everybody seeming to know everybody else.

Except them, of course. They’re recognized by the neighbors, surely, but they’ve never been around long enough for the amount of time required to build and sustain meaningful friendships.

“I like this,” Jemma murmurs, as they stand in the corner on the rough cobblestone. “Remind me why we’ve never been to this before?”

“Probably because we’ve never been in town for it before, and we didn’t know it existed until a few days ago,” Fitz says.

“Well, yes, I suppose that’s true,” she says, tugging on the scarf around her neck.

Jemma pauses.

“Oh, I love this song,” she says, wistful.

He smiles. “May I have this dance?”

A mischievous smile crosses her face.

“Oh, goodness,” she says, “I don’t know, you’re awfully handsome, but I’m afraid my husband’s waiting for me, and I really must get back—” She trails off, stepping closer so that their chests just barely brush.

Fitz chuckles, taking her hand. “I’m afraid we may have to disappoint him,” he says, lightly, “because I’m not sure I can let you go.”

She grins, inches from his mouth. “Well, come on, then,” she says, swinging his hand. She pulls him into one of the side streets, still well-lit, but less traveled, more out of the way. One of his hands finds the small of her back like an old friend, the other held in hers.

They dance like a mathematical formula could be beautiful, perfectly in time to the faint music, and each other. It’s less dancing than it is swaying in place, but that hardly matters. She lays her head on his shoulder, and he feels her close her eyes.

 _I wish every afternoon could be like this,_ he hears her say. The more he thinks about it, the more he feels the same way. The longer they’re away, the longer they’re spoiled with quiet and safety, the more he begins to dread going back. He wants to be near the team, but at what cost? He’s not foolish enough to think they can cheat death too many more times.

He sighs, audible.

For once, not privy to his thoughts, Jemma takes it for a sigh of resignation, or perhaps preoccupation.

"Ah, Fitz," she says, hesitantly, looking up at him, "I’m sorry, I know we’ve been out for a while. If you’re tired, we don’t have to stay long—"

“It’s not that, Jem,” he says, shaking his head. “There’s no place I’d rather be, really.”

“Really, truly?” she asks, tapping his jaw, gently.

“Really, truly,” he says.

“Then, what’s the matter?” she asks.

“I’ve just been thinking, is all,” he says. “About what you said. About us. About SHIELD. This is a good place.” He gestures around them. “We’re not going to find much better than this if we’re looking to— to settle down.”

She bites her lip. “You’re right. And you know you don’t have to convince me. I’m just afraid that leaving the team will be a mistake.”

Having agonized over the very same thing, he opens his mouth to reply. But before he can get the words out, his phone buzzes in his pocket, loud and intrusive.

With a sigh, he shifts slightly back from her, bringing the screen close to read the caller. Unknown caller, which means SHIELD.

“Impeccable timing, as always,” he mutters. She gives him a small, sad smile.

“We’ll talk about this later,” she says, squeezing his elbow. He looks at her for another long moment, then, visibly disappointed, picks up the phone.

“Fitz,” he answers, steadily. Immediately, the person on the other end begins to speak, too low and scratchy for Jemma to catch.

“Work?” she mouths.

He nods. She leans in close to hear.

“—an immediate biological situation,” Coulson is saying, terse, on the other end. “I hate to call you two on vacation, but if you can break away a day or so early, we could really use your help.”

Jemma frowns, shifting back to look at Fitz. He thinks about asking Coulson how bad it is, to gauge how much longer they could possibly stay put, but he doesn’t.

He looks back at Jemma. Then,  
“We’ll let you know,” he says, slowly.

Coulson says something she can’t make out.

“Uh huh. Will do,” Fitz says. “Bye.” He jabs the END button, hanging up. They stand there in the cold for a moment, neither of them seeming to want to speak first.

“Well, I suppose this means retirement is on hold,” she says, lightly, winding her hands deeper into her pockets. Her expression is careful, watching for his response, watching to see if he’s disappointed or relieved. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, both to stave off nerves and to keep herself warm.

Fitz snorts, leaning back against the rough brick wall of the shop. She watches the soft cloud of his breath rise into the air, then dissipate. “As always, they just expect us to drop everything and come running back,” he says, finally.

“Oh, Fitz,” she says, “be fair, they don’t _always —_”

“Yes, they do,” he interrupts. “Almost always, anyway.”

“Almost always,” she murmurs. Then, hesitantly, “I mean, Coulson didn’t order us back. It was more of a… strong request. If it were bad enough, he’d just order us back, right? Maybe— maybe don’t have to go back just yet.”

He smiles faintly. “Yeah, we do.”

“Why, then?” she asks. Not because she believes it’s completely unreasonable, but because she wants to hear his argument.

He scrubs a hand over his face. “Because it’s the right thing to do. We made a commitment. It would be wrong for us to say we can’t come back when we can.”

She steps closer to him. “How morally upright,” she teases. Then, looking down, “No, you’re right. It’s just, this was supposed to be our first Christmas in Perthshire, is all.”

“I know,” he says. “Believe me, I know.”

“But there’s always next year, I suppose,” she says, trying to put on a smile. “As much as I want this —and you know I do— I’d never forgive myself if I left them in a lurch. I just hope you’re not too disappointed.” Her brow creases in concern.

“Ah, you know me,” Fitz says, cracking a smile. “I’ll get over it.” He bumps her shoulder with his. “As long as you're not?”

“Not too badly. There’s always next year,” she says, again. “Right?”

He smiles. “Right.”

They stand for a few more seconds.

“Well. We should go, then,” she says.

“We should. After you,” he says, gesturing toward the car. He reaches for his phone. “I’ll let them know we’re on our way.”

Before he does so, she steps in to give him a soft, quick kiss. He isn’t expecting it, and closes his eyes only at the last possible moment, one arm around her waist, sinking into her vanilla scent, the only spot of warmth in the cold.

“What was that for?” he asks, eyes bright, after she steps back again.

She smiles. Saying nothing, she simply takes his free hand, and he swings their arms as they walk to the car— slow, but not too slow, enjoying the music and the square and the crowd, dappled in the white lights hanging from the buildings.

The promise of settling down, possibly for good, lingers like a promise before them, waiting for the right time. So close, they can almost taste it, but not just yet. But that’s all right, she thinks, watching her breath puff into the air. Soon enough, they would have the time. Soon enough.

 

 

_ix. they say home is a place where you're needed, then i am home now, but i am leaving_

They catch a last-minute red-eye back to the States, the final passengers to board before the flight takes off.

Jemma is glued to the window as Fitz buckles himself in, watching the city lights twinkle in the darkness around them. From up here, the city looks impossibly peaceful. The tiny house lights  
shine up at them, forming constellations only for her eyes. She's happy to be on her way to see the team, but she's sad to leave the serenity of the country. Goodness only knows when they’ll be able to visit again.

She imagines she can see it all from here: the house, the beach, the supermarket, the bed and breakfast. She can't, of course, but she tries to condense these recent memories into one place in her mind, a much as possible, to have a place to revisit in thought should she need a moment of quiet.

“Goodbye, Perthshire,” she says, with only a hint of regret. She takes one last look out the window, then pulls down the shade, lowering her head to Fitz’s shoulder.

“Ready to go back to work?” he asks, quietly, shifting to accommodate her. He wraps one warm arm around her, and she snuggles in further.

She smiles. “Yes. For now.”

He looks down at her. “For now?” he asks, sounding slightly hopeful.

She gives him a long look, trying to decide whether he's glad to be going back to the field, or glad at the seeming temporariness.

“For now,” is all she says, again.

There’s always next year.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The monitor crackles, like clockwork, around 1am. From his place under the covers, Fitz groans. Jemma, however, has been dozing for some time— not quite anxious, but still unable to completely sleep. 
> 
> “Go back to sleep,” she says, softly, touching his shoulder. “I’ll take care of it.” Really, it’s her turn— Fitz is usually good about getting up for the 1ams. She’ll cut him a break.
> 
> (Or, one year after the events of Chapter 1, FitzSimmons try again to spend Christmas in Perthshire-- plus one new family member.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As mentioned in the summary, this takes place one year after the events of Chapter 1.

_x. they say home is a place you can choose to be (and i've decided to carry home inside me)_

The monitor crackles, like clockwork, around 1am.

From his place under the covers, Fitz groans. Jemma, however, has been dozing for some time— not quite anxious, but still unable to completely sleep. She just sighs, stretching.

“Go back to sleep,” she says, touching the place in the mound of blankets she thinks his shoulder is most likely to be. “I’ll take care of it.”

Really, it’s her turn— Fitz is usually good about getting up for the 1ams. She’ll cut him a break this time.

He murmurs in appreciation.

She slides out from under the covers and out of the room, padding down the hall in bare feet. The moonlight throws shadows across the the hall, and she steps over them as lightly as a dancer.

The baby's screaming when Jemma appears at the edge of her crib— one tiny, red hand in her mouth, the other curled tightly on the sheet. She quiets for a moment when Jemma appears in her line of vision, transfixed as she reaches in to gather her up. Gently, supporting the neck. Not as nervously as she had been in the first few weeks, but still hyper-aware.

“Hello, there,” Jemma says, softly, settling her into her arm. “Not so happy this morning, are we? You do know it's technically morning.”

The baby blinks at her, indignant.

“Right. Of course you do,” she humors her. “Well, do you know what day it is?”

The baby just stares at her for a moment, and then screws her face up and screams.

“Downstairs it is, then,” she sighs.

She tries to be as quiet as possible, but Fitz already waiting for them in the kitchen. He's standing at the kitchen stove with the kettle on, rumpled and sleepy.

“Hey,” she says, shifting the whimpering baby to hold her against her shoulder.

“Hey,” he says, rubbing at his eyes. “Thought I’d, uh. Make some tea. Since it seems we’ll be up a while.”

They’d learned quickly that, when it came to this particular baby, the walls of this house were only but so soundproof. More often than not, though one of them would get up first, they’d both end up downstairs, or just bringing her into their room to yell herself out if she couldn’t be soothed. Apparently, tonight is one of those nights.

“Thanks,” she says, gratefully, kissing his cheek. With a month-old baby, even the simplest of tasks— making tea, for example, were infinitely easier with two people instead of one. Especially in the middle of the night.

“Did you try telling her what day it is?” he mumbles, yawning. “Is nothing sacred anymore? Not even Christmas?”

She snorts. “Of course,” she says, over the baby. “She’s too determined.”

Fitz drops into a kitchen chair. “Sounds like someone else I know,” he sighs. She shoots him a look.

“I do hope you mean yourself,” she says, warningly.

On the stovetop, kettle starts to whistle, matching pitch with the squirming baby. Jemma lets it shriek for a few more moments, then shifts it off with her free hand. She pours some hot water over the teabag for herself, then for him, passing him a chipped porcelain mug.

They hang around the kitchen, drinking their tea, watching the red numbers on the stovetop count up toward morning. Fifteen minutes go by, then thirty. The baby shows no sign of tiring out.

“Can I see her?” Fitz finally asks, when none of their ministrations seem to work. At the very least, it’ll can give Jemma’s arms —and ears— a slight break.

She sighs. “Be my guest.”

“Someone’s unhappy, isn’t she?” he murmurs, settling the baby into his arm. “You tried burping her?” he asks, looking back up at Jemma.

She nods. “And feeding her. And just about everything else, as you saw.”

“What do you want?” he sighs, playing with one small foot. “If you want to give us a little peace and quiet at some point, soon, that would be great. Mum and I would both really appreciate it.”

She ignores him. Jemma just sighs.

“I didn’t know babies were capable of making such noise for such extended periods of time,” she says, rubbing her temples. Fitz looks at her. “I mean. I _knew_ , but I didn’t _know_.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” he mumbles. “Maybe we should’ve gotten a dog, hmm?” he says, mostly teasing, looking down at the baby, letting her wrap a fist around his thumb as she screams. “Or a cat, even. You know, something that makes less noise and doesn’t ultimately require us to instill in it a lasting sense of right and wrong.”

“What, no monkey?” Jemma asks, leaning on the counter.

“Monkeys screech, too,” Fitz says. “I did my research.”

Suddenly, it goes quiet.

Jemma bursts out with a loud, surprised laugh, then quickly muffles herself. “Oh, someone doesn’t like her place on the food chain threatened.”

A slow, wide grin spreads across Fitz’s face. “I did it,” he says. “She stopped crying.”

“Well, yes,” Jemma says, recovering her composure. She lowers her voice, hoping to preserve the calm. “Or, we both just finally wore her out. Which is more likely.”

“Honestly, whatever you need to tell yourself, I’m fine with,” he says, staring in wonder. “God, it’s so quiet.”

Finally, Jemma can hear herself breathe again. She watches the baby to see if she’s going to start up again, but she’s gone completely still, staring up at the ceiling overhead, blinking heavily. They’re either in the eye of the storm, or she’s finally worn herself out. She hopes it’s the latter.

Slowly, she lowers herself into the chair beside him, resting her head on her arms.

“So quiet,” she mumbles, contentedly. “I’m going to, just. Close my eyes for three seconds. Possibly a few more.”

“Go ahead,” Fitz says, nudging her knee with his. “I’ve got her for now.”

“You’re the best.” She yawns. “Remind me to show you just how much I appreciate you at a later date and time.”

He laughs. She closes her eyes.

Finally, all is calm.

—

Around three in the morning comes a spatter of sharp knocks at the front door, making them both jump. Startled, the baby keens once, then is silent.

Fitz and Jemma stare at each other from opposite ends of the couch, where they’d moved a while ago to be more comfortable. She sees her own apprehension mirrored back to her in his face.

“Were you expecting someone?” she asks, low.

“No,” he says, slowly. He stands, moving toward the high shelf where they keep a spare gun. “Take her into the hall. Don’t move until I tell you.”

“Fitz—”

His eyes plead with her. “I’m sure it’s nothing. I just want to be sure.”

His face alone makes her insides shiver, makes her want to cross the room to him, but she forces herself to turn in the opposite direction. She walks into the hall, instead. But before she does so, she says, “Be careful.”

He nods, then inclines his head in the direction of the back of the house, motioning for her to go toward the bedroom.

In her arms, the baby squirms. Jemma slips around the corner and out of sight, but stays as close as she can, straining to hear.

“Who is it?” Fitz calls, steadily, but she can hear the tenseness in his voice. She bites her lip, listening hard. For a few moments there’s nothing. She hears a muffled reply, but she’s not close enough to make it out. She holds her breath. A second later, the door opens.

Then, she hears Hunter’s booming voice.

“Oi, where’s my favorite niece?”

Almost immediately, he is shushed by a larger party.

“It’s past midnight! People are trying to sleep!” Jemma recognizes Daisy’s scolding voice, and relief blooms in her chest.

Not a threat. Her friends, her family, come for the holidays. Not a threat.

Jemma waits another minute for her heart and shaking hands to settle down. Then, putting on a smile, with the baby in her arms, she emerges from the hall.

“What do we have here?” she asks, smiling. “I heard someone was looking for this one.”

She is quickly surrounded by eager, admiring friends. Daisy, Hunter, Bobbi, Mack, and May, all suddenly squeezed into their tiny living room. The only ones missing are Coulson, Lincoln, and Joey, who Daisy explains are investigating a reported Inhuman sighting in Nebraska. Daisy herself will join them in a day or two.

“There she is,” Hunter says, reaching toward the baby. “There’s my favorite girl.”

“Your favorite, huh?” Bobbi teases.

“Well, my second favorite,” he amends. “Can I hold her already?”

Jemma acquiesces, carefully passing her over. Then, propping her hands on her hips, looking around to catch everyone’s eyes,

“Not that I’m not glad to see you all, but you gave us quite a scare,” she says, sternly. “Really, you should have called first. One of us could’ve shot you!”

Mack slaps a big hand on Hunter’s shoulder. “That’s why we sent him first.”

Everyone laughs, and Jemma’s composure is sufficiently broken. “Oh, that’s awful,” she says, smothering a smile.

“Attacked,” Hunter stage-whispers, to the baby. “I feel so attacked. On Christmas, of all days. I know _you_ wouldn’t speak to me this way.”

She stares at him with wide eyes, clenching and unclenching one small fist.

“That’s because she _can’t_ talk,” Fitz offers.

“Just let me have this, mate,” Hunter says.

—

“So, what are you all doing here?” Jemma asks, later, when they’ve all settled into their respective chairs or claimed spots on the floor when the chairs ran out. She’s keeping one eye on Fitz, across the room, and one the baby, who’s content to be doted on, passed from person to person. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, of course,” she qualifies.

“For Christmas, of course!” Daisy pipes up, from across the room, where she sits on the floor, letting the baby play with her pinky. “We couldn’t miss her first Christmas.”

“And Hanukkah,” Bobbi adds, from the beat-up loveseat beside the couch. Then, “We’re a bit late for Hanukkah, but oh, well.”

“Close enough,” Jemma assures her, patting her knee. “It’s the thought that counts.”

“She wanted to bring her a dreidel, but I had to remind her about choking hazards,” Hunter says.

Bobbi rolls her eyes to the heavens. “I was _joking_. It was a _joke_.”

Jemma laughs, looking around at her overfilled living room. Mack and Bobbi, squished into the sofa next to her, Hunter, sprawled on the floor at their feet, Fitz, next to Daisy and the baby. May, sitting back from everyone else, with an eye on the door, keeping watch. She’d missed this more than most things, she thinks, even if they’d only been away on leave a few short weeks.

As always, May swoops in to speak to her quietly, without fanfare. She’s simply not there one moment, and in the space beside Jemma in the next.

“She looks just like you,” May says, quietly, watching the baby from across the room. Without speaking, Bobbi has traded places with May, now the standing guard. Jemma’s heart thrums.

“Oh, really, do you think so?” she asks, not sure why she’s blushing. “I keep saying she looks just like Fitz, she’s got his hair and everything—”

“No.” May smiles. “She looks like you. Him, too, but you.” Then, as the baby lets out an excited shriek, “Maybe her temperament, she got from him.”

Jemma laughs. “She does have quite the appetite.”

Fitz pretends not to hear this.

Beside her, May grows serious again. She speaks low enough that they are the only two who can hear, not wanting to disturb the rest of the group. “Jemma, I hope you know that if you two ever need someone to watch her, you have me,” she says, watching her steadily. “Anytime, anywhere. No matter what it is you need.”

Touched, Jemma places her hand on the other woman’s arm.

“Thank you, May,” she says, sincerely. “You’d be our first call.”

May gives one quick nod. Standing, she offers Jemma a final, soft congratulations, then returns to her position as sentinel, leaving Jemma with something like an ache for the other woman— two parts grateful, one part sorrow.

—

Everyone collectively passes out close to six a.m., just as the horizon begins to lighten. They sleep where they sit, sprawled out on carpet and couches or cramped into chairs, except for Jemma and Daisy, who are too wired to sleep. Even May sleeps, upright against the wall, mouth open, breathing lightly.

They sit leaned-up against one another in the quiet, half-dozing. Fitz’s head is pillowed on Jemma’s lap, one arm curled protectively around the baby between them.

“I’m sure you already know this, but Trip would’ve loved her,” Daisy murmurs, wistful, stroking the baby’s downy hair. Softly, so she won’t wake her. “He would be so proud of you guys.”

Jemma’s smile falters for a moment, but she puts on a brave face.

“I know,” she whispers. “Thank you. You, too.”

Daisy looks down. “I just wish he were here,” she says. “I wish he could see all this.”

Swallowing the sudden lump in her throat, Jemma takes her friend’s hand and squeezes it.

“He’s still with us. He did what he did so we could have all of this,” Jemma says. “And I know— I know he wouldn’t want us to be sad.”

Daisy nods rapidly, blinking hard. Then, pressing her face into Jemma’s shoulder, “I’m glad we came.”

“I’m glad you came, too,” Jemma says, leaning her head onto her friend’s. “It wouldn’t— I don’t think it would feel much like the holidays without all of you.” As soon as she says it, she realizes it’s true.

Daisy hums in agreement, settling down against the front of the sofa. In minutes, she is asleep as well, leaving Jemma to her thoughts and the rising sun.

Jemma hadn’t imagined her friends would come, but now she can’t picture this morning any other way. She looks around at the ones with her once more— her friends, her family, come for the holiday. She thinks of the ones who can’t be here but whom they will see again; she thinks of the ones they’ve lost in the past few years, the ones who gave all that they had so their friends might live to see another December. New life traded dearly for older ones.

Finally, she looks down at her little family, gathered practically in her lap. Fitz. The baby. She rubs a circle on Fitz’s shoulder with her thumb, watching them breathe.

_This is it,_ she thinks. _This is home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this. As always, commentary and constructive criticism are very much appreciated, if you can spare the time. ♥

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 2, the epilogue, is already written and will be posted in a few days. So, stay tuned!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this. As always, commentary and constructive criticism are very much appreciated, if you can spare the time. ♥


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